Strings On A Puppet
by Tatsumaki-sama
Summary: It was hard enough watching those creepy puppets stare at him. It was harder for Dean to know that there was some creepy puppeteer controlling the unconscious Sam.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.

**Strings On A Puppet****  
**

Groaning, Dean slowly came back to consciousness, blinking from the sudden, bright light somewhere above him. His head pounded like a blunted axe had embedded itself in his brain - that club or whatever hit him, it hurt like heck! - A trickle of something wet coated on the right side of his head and he instinctively raised his hand to inspect the wound, only to find he was sitting in a chair, his arms tied back behind him.

Silently cursing his luck, he grimaced, trying to clear his groggy head. He had been walking around an abandoned theater, after news about a young man, Ethan, found there, hysterically claiming that his girlfriend, who had been killed earlier by a "man in black", stabbed him multiple times, speaking in a voice that wasn't her own. Two years earlier, there was a similar case where a group of teenagers entered the theater as a dare and all of them were later found either dead or laughing madly, insisting that puppets made them do it, that they made them kill the others.

It had perked their interest and so, they decided to investigate. Five years ago, a ventriloquist by name of August De Luca lived and worked at the Majestic Stallion Theater, a once famed and well-furnished place, now closed and left to ruin after August's agent was discovered strangled to death in the backstage before a performance. The strangest thing was that Owen, a favored puppet of August, had his hands wrapped around the agent's neck. August was suspected but he was never found guilty. People got frightened and gradually stopped going to the theater and it simply went bankrupted, a faded remnant of its former glory. And an added bonus was that all the victims were found in the backstage.

To cover more ground, they decided to split up, Sam checking the auditorium, while Dean tackled the lobby. Finding nothing but grime and mold, Dean was about to head back to check on Sam when he heard a muffled yell and a loud thump in the otherwise deathly silent theater. Alarmed, he had rushed towards the direction of the sounds, pulling out his gun, only to have his head nearly bashed in. Which when he came to, he was here.

And speaking of Sam -

Sam sat directly across from him, motionless and still. To Dean's surprise, he was dressed formally, in a black suit and tie, matched with a white dress shirt underneath, neat and uncreased. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded orderly in his lap, a stiff and solemn position. If it wasn't for Sam's drooping head and his untidy mop of dark hair, Dean would have believed his brother to be a rich, meticulous businessman on his way to an extremely prominent meeting, only to be lost along the way.

" Sam? You all right?" he asked, his tingly brother senses on high alert. There was no answer, just soft, evened-out breaths from Sam. Dean relaxed, releasing his own breath. Sam was only asleep or unconscious. For now, that was good enough for him.

Casting an eye around, Dean could see they were in a dimly lit room, with the only source of light coming from the hanging lamp, swaying mechanically above him, giving him an interrogation room sort of feel. There was a clutter of shelves, boxes, trunks, stage lights and stools, all coated in a thick layer of dust. A clothes rack was quietly tucked away in a corner, still stuffed full of spectacular, dazzling costumes and clothing. A few cardboard boxes were littered around, some half-opened, and Dean could see that one of them had old, yellow newspaper cuttings. Posters hung on the walls, once glamorous and bright, were now dulled and dreary, worn by age.

Right behind Sam, were rows and rows of puppets. Some were remained in perfect condition, sitting where they were, like good little girls and boys. Others weren't as fortunate, as eyes were popped out, hair yanked out, clothing ripped and limbs disfigured. Their smiles were more menacing and cruel than friendly and perky, not a trace of humor in them. Their glittering eyes seemed to be focusing on the two occupants in the lonely room. Unable to do anything else, Dean glared back at them, who simply mocked him more.

Somewhere behind him, a door opened and closed. Twisting in his seat, Dean craned his neck and head to catch a glimpse of a person, completely dressed, from head to toe, an ebony mask covering his face, in black, a gloomy, oppressive blackness that swallowed all light. He walked - no, glided wordlessly across the room, circling around his captives.

" Who are you?" Dean harshly said, following the shrouded figure as he traveled around and around them, wishing that he had hidden his flat-bladed knife underneath his sleeve instead of his boot.

The shadow of a person said nothing, one of his gloved hand smoothing across the back of Dean's chair before he headed towards an unsuspecting Sam.

" What are you doing?" he demanded, alarm rising, even if he desperately tried to contain it.

The person stepped behind Sam, all but a figure hidden completely in the darkness. He blended in so well, a normal person might have believed him to be invisible. Dean watched with gritted teeth as Sam's head was lifted up, lolling for a moment on his shoulder, as he grasped Sam's jaw, massaging it gently until the muscles were all slack and the mouth was hanging open.

" Greetings, ladies and gentlemen," Sam said animatedly with a cheery enthusiasm. It was not Sam who spoke, but the puppeteer behind him, controlling Sam's every movement as Sam's mouth mimicked every word, syllable and sound the puppeteer wanted, to the point it was unquestionably unnerving. " Very nice to meet all of you. My name is August and I will be your host for the night. Now for you only, I have a special entertainment prepared you folks today. So buckle those seats and keep your eyes on the front. This is a show you wouldn't want to miss."

Just as the final words came to an end, Sam's lips were forced into a loopy grin before giving a low bow (it looked more like that Sam had slumped forward) from his seat towards Dean and jolting back to his original position, arms and legs flopping helplessly.

" So this is what you do with your guests?" Dean asked imprudently. " Using them like puppets for your sick pleasure?"

" I wouldn't go so far to call it a _sick pleasure_," August casually said, Sam ignorantly bobbing his head to affirm it. " I'm inclined to call it - well, my _highly enjoyed pass time_ sounds pleasant enough."

Dean raised an eyebrow. " Is that suppose to calm me down? 'Cuz if it is, you're doing a lousy job."

" You're just overreacting. Ventriloquism is an art, an ingenuity that one must carefully examine in order to appreciate it." He spoke fervently, breathing conviction into his words for his lone listener to understand. " It is an illusion, a figment of your imagination, to fool your audience into believing what isn't there. And I will bet that for a split second, you thought that your friend here was awake and talking, weren't you?"

When Dean said nothing, he continued, as if there was no pause, with the same confidence and intensity as he did before. " I could create that illusion at will. My puppets - " he indicated to the ones behind him on the shelves, using Sam's hand. " - they came to life. I gave them a soul and a mind of their own. I loved them like they were my own. But one day, my agent came to me, saying I had to - had to get rid of them." He spat out the words like they were poison to him. " My puppets. My children. I had to kill them. End their lives with my own hands."

Sam's hands clenched tightly in his laps, an instrument for the ventriloquist to dispense his rage. Dean could see nails digging into the soft, vulnerable flesh of the palm, knuckles white underneath the skin. " How could he even ask of such a thing?" the man hissed viciously, growling at some invisible foe in the dark. " His lame excuse was that my puppets were getting too old, too useless and tattered to be of any appeal to the audience. No. I wouldn't do it. Even if my puppets withered and rotted, I wouldn't do it for all the fame and riches on this earth. I would not kill my puppets. Not for the world."

Breathing heavily, as though his little rant provoked the air from his lungs, he paused. Sam released his grip on his hands and they rested serenely back on his lap, obedient and biding. August gave a light cough, one of Sam's hands covering Sam's mouth, to clear 'his' throat.

" Please forgive me. I sometimes forget that I have guests in my presence." The ventriloquist immediately returned back to his flamboyant and pleasant tone, which, in Dean's opinion, was more unsettling than the fact he was using living people as puppets. No one that angry would have that quick of a mood change. No one normal and sane, at least. " My agent did not get to carry out his demands of _murdering_ my children fortunately. And afterwards, no one dared to bother me or my beloved puppets."

A grimace was all that was needed to exhibit Dean's disgust. " So you killed him."

" Oh no oh no. It was not me." Sam - or rather the puppeteer - waved his hands in the air, as if trying to wave Dean's accusation away. " I didn't do anything. Owen did everything. I just asked him and he did it. It would be too troublesome for me to commit the deed. Not to mention dealing with the dirty work afterwards. I'm a man who prefers to be clean. See?" Clean hands - Sam's hands to be exact, extended at Dean and ironically enough, the hands were unblemished of any sort of stain or dirt.

" Which was why you controlled Chloe's dead body to stab Ethan?"

Tilting his head to a side, Sam was looked like a child who didn't understand the crime of stealing candy from a baby, which he was convicted of. " Really? Did Chloe really do that?" Two flimsy hands went up to slap his cheeks in mock surprise. " Dear me, I had no idea. If Chloe did, I do hope you would forgive her. She wasn't in the right mind at the time. Or should I say she wasn't in the right body at the time?"

Clearly agitated, Dean twisted his bonds to no avail, snarling each word. " Wait until I get free. Then we'll see who's laughing then."

The man, in fact, did laugh loud and hard, a deep, husky sound from the depths of his throat. He even had Sam throw his head back for effect, mouth wide opened in a silly, cavernous howl. " I'll look forward to that. By the way, I don't think Sammy here will be waking up any time soon. Yes, _Sammy_." He had Sam grin victoriously at Dean's astonishment. " That's what you called him, right? As you were coming to the backstage to check on him? Anyways, it took quite a bit of chloroform to knock him out and it certainly would be a shame to wake him so soon. So why don't you be a good friend and let him sleep for a while longer?" Slipping down slowly, Sam leaned back, looking as if he had just shifted to get comfortable in his seat. His mouth was prompted into an exaggerated yawn before closing shut once more.

Finally, Dean couldn't take anymore of it. " Stop it," he hissed through clenched teeth.

" Stop what?" August asked, cheerfully oblivious. " Stop my ventriloquism? That, my boy, is a near impossibility. This is my gift, my joy, my_ life_. I was born to do it and I shall do it. Besides, what is the use of a puppet if it cannot perform? Worthless, if you ask me."

"_ Sam_ isn't one of your puppets," Dean growled venomously.

" But currently, he is. I could make him do anything and everything I want." A silver knife was pulled out from the dark folds of August's pocket. He gingerly placed it in Sam's hand, fingers curling tightly around it. " If I wanted to," he said slowly, deliberately, watching Dean's face. " I could make Sam kill himself."

It took a considerable amount of self-control not to show how scared he was. Dean licked dry lips to contain the tremble of his voice. " If you touch a hair on Sam -"

" Then what? What can you possibly do in your situation?" The smile Sam was forced to smile was no longer silly looking or comical. It looked cruel, almost sadistic. " You are tied up and I'm not. I'm the one with the knife. You aren't."

" Why?" he finally asked.

" Fear." August said it so simply and easily that Dean almost laughed. " To see fear in your eyes as you watch someone close to you killing themselves without their knowing before watching _them _hurt you. I want you to understand what I went through. These dolls behind me, these poor trapped souls, their fate was by my agent in his determination to convince me that they weren't real. He kept saying they were just dolls, made of plastic and wood. Could you understand my pain? My anguish as I watched my most precious friends killed and destroyed in that instant they fell to the floor? I want you to feel it, relish in it, drown in it, as I did."

There was only a few words that Dean could think of at the moment that could describe what he felt. " You're a sick bastard," he said with revulsion.

He hmphed, Sam's eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. " Curse me if you will. But remember, I don't have to lift a finger to hurt you." He used Sam's ridiculously smile again, his other hand manipulating Sam's hand to clutch the knife straight at his stomach. " Sammy will do all the work for me. Sammy will be the one killing himself."

" I swear if you -"

" If I? If _I_? No good sir, it is not me doing the action."

With a swift plunge, the knife sank into Sam's stomach.

"_ NO!_"

A strangled cry escaped from Dean's lips. All the air was driven from his lungs, burning his throat as he choked and gasped for something to save him from this nightmare. There was a haze in his mind, an immense blankness that stole all thought and reason. It was the most grisly, hair-rising thing he had seen and yet, he couldn't stop staring. His head refused to turn, his eyes completely rooted on the sight before him. Sam's peaceful face held no pain or indicate any emotion that a knife had suddenly entered his body. He was merely sleeping and now, he would never wake up.

He kept staring at the knife, sunken to the hilt, in horror and revulsion. This could not be happening, he told himself, blinking back unshed tears, swallowing several times. But nothing went down his parched throat. Sam couldn't be dead. He couldn't be. He - he refused to believe it. All he had to do was walk over to Sam and press a finger to his throat. A beating heart would be found and he would hear a reassuring _thump thump _pumping underneath his fingertips. Look, there wasn't even that much blood ...

Dean stopped, blinking. Blood? There wasn't so much as a blotch of red on Sam's perfectly white shirt. But that would be impossible. The knife was clearly buried into Sam's guts so much that he couldn't even see the blade.

Suddenly, the ventriloquist laughed out loud. Dean started. He had forgotten completely about the man hidden in the shadows, swathed in the darkness. " You should have seen your face." He continued to chortle, a boyish giggle in the dead silence. " It was priceless. I should have taken a picture when I had a chance." Still grinning, the man removed the knife from Sam, the "blade" popping back to its original position with a tiny _click_, spotless and clean of blood.

Relief immediately replaced the heart-stopping shock Dean had felt, closing his eyes to blissfully digest in the knowledge. Sam was alive. He wasn't dead. Then, a moment later, his eyes snapped open, smoldering green blazing over in such a rage and venom that the entire room shook, cowering towards the young hunter. Even the silently watchful puppets on the shelves trembled.

_" You are so dead."_

His chuckles immediately stopped and Sam's head cocked his head to a side curiously. " Can't take a joke?" The ventriloquist conveyed his disapproving reproach with Sam's frown, which looked more like Sam was pouting childishly. He sighed when Dean did not relent his glare. " So serious. I can see what poor Sammy had to put up with." The frown deepened and Sam shook his head in reproach, wisps of hair swishing back and forth.

" Jokes like knock-knock jokes are funny!" he furiously yelled, his frayed nerves getting the better of him. "_That_ wasn't."

" Come on! I tried, at least!" he whined, like a spoiled brat. " Geez. What a hard crowd today. Fine. If you didn't like that one, I'll make sure you like this one." Smiling maliciously, Sam's hand was flipped to his palm facing upwards. Another dagger appeared from the folds of his dark clothes, the blade glistering viciously. The fake one slipped from Sam's fingers and clattered noisily to the floor. " Then, to appease you, I will do it right this time."

" Like I'd fall for that trick again," Dean scoffed.

The ventriloquist displayed his amusement through Sam, another Cheshire grin stretched tightly against Sam's cheeks. " Who says this one is a trick? If you don't believe me ..." The dagger angled downwards and left a trail of crimson straight across Sam's palm.

Forcing himself to calm down, Dean convinced himself that it was fake, just some sort of red dye that the ventriloquist had used, that the liquid dripping down from his brother's hand was only a psychological means as to frighten him. He kept repeating that to himself, (_just fake - just fake - just fake - just fake_), almost like a ringing chant in his head, until he caught the coppery - very real - scent of blood.

Shouting a violent storm of swear words, Dean frantically strained against his bonds. " I'm going to kill you!" he snarled, feeling the ropes burning into his screaming wrists, blood trickling down. But he didn't care. Half of his mind was shrieking alarms at the blood dripping from Sam's hand. The other half was too busy cursing. Both at August and at himself. " I swear once I get free, I'm going to - !"

" Tall words. I would be quite terrified if you weren't tied up right now," August lazily interrupted, his mocking grin back. " But then again, weren't you the one who didn't believe that I was telling the truth?" He had Sam stretch out his bloody palm towards Dean, the rotten, wooden floor below greedily sucking the scarlet drops up. " You see, you cannot blame me for what Sam voluntarily did to himself."

He snarled and fought his bonds, spitting out several more curses. But there was nothing more he could say. August's grin widened. " Did I touch a nerve? Oops. Sorry about that. I'll try to remember that for next time."

This was going nowhere. He could argue and scream all he want, it wasn't going to help either him or Sam. Throughout the whole conversation with August, he's been pestering and prodding Dean, getting him angry and nerve-wrecked, toying with his emotions. He knew how to push Dean's buttons, keeping him in the dark, all wrapped around in his finger ...

Wait a minute. Dean blinked, slowly allowing the thought to sink in. So that's how it was. He smirked, chuckling to himself at the absurdity of it. Fine. If that's how August wanted to play it like that, so could he.

" Mmm?" Sam's head was tilted, smiling too. " Something of amusement to you?"

" I'm just a little surprised here," Dean casually said, leaning back on his chair, just as relaxed as Sam. " I just never thought I would hear a guy being so obsessed with a bunch of dolls. What are you, a little girl playing Barbie or something?"

From the darkness, he could almost sense August glaring at him, a silent fury. " What did you say?" he asked quietly. This time, his voice had not its usual vigor and conviction.

" You heard what I said, Mr. I-love-my-Barbies," Dean sneered in a tone that equaled August's minutes ago. " And what are you going to do about it? You're gonna get your buddy Owen to strange me? Seriously, you got some issues, man. Major issues. What has Owen or any of those dolls done for you? They just sit around there, the lazy bums."

" How dare you say -"

" Then, it's true?" He chuckled, maybe a little sadistically. " Seeing how defensive you're getting, looks like you agree with me. Those puppets are nothing but things carved out of plastic and wood. And you know what the kicker is? They don't even have a heart, figuratively and literally."

" Stop saying those things about my - !"

" Friends? Sure. "Friends". Some friends those things are. They can't talk. They can't move. They can't do anything. _You_ can make them talk, move and do whatever you want, but in the end, they're dolls. Nothing compared to good, ol' fashion flesh and bones."

" No ... _No_! That's not - "

" Which is exactly why you will never be able to control Sam. Or that girl, Chloe. Or your agent. You _couldn't _control them. They fought back, unlike the puppets you're used to. And you didn't like it. So really, this isn't about fear, as you said it before. This is about control. You pulling the strings. You behind the scenes. You taking the credit. And once that slipped out of your control, you simply panicked."

" SHUT UP!!!"

Shoving Sam aside, August lunged at him, arms outstretched, screaming a steam of curses. His hands found their way to Dean's neck, knocking both of them downwards. A crack of pain exploded as Dean's head came crashing down hard to the ground. For a moment, he couldn't see anything but jeering stars and a disorderly swirl of colors. Vaguely, he noted that he now has two bumps on his head. The fact that August was choking him didn't help matters much.

" Lies! They're - all - lies!" he snarled with each hissing breath. Through the jumbled mass of blurred light, Dean could see the terrible madness in his eyes, burning and blazing with frenzy. " My dolls _are_ alive! I can prove it! They've done more for me than any of you _filth_!" He suddenly started laughing, a raucous sound in Dean's ringing ears. " Control? What does killing my agent, that girl or the others have to do with control? What does control have to do with killing you right now?"

It was no good. Being tied up with his hands behind him and being the one on the bottom were not good points for the young hunter. He gave a struggled gasp. He was losing this fight. The slumped body of Sam was blissfully unaware of what was going to happen, contentedly asleep to the world.

" Don't worry," the ventriloquist said breathlessly, unexpectedly relaxing his grip, allowing a tiny outlet for air in. " I'll give you a chance to apologize. Owen's always telling me to give people a second chance. It's just that they tend to abuse their second chance. When that happens, Owen helps me to take care of them."

" ... Isn't - that considerate?" Dean wheezed out. " Then - I'm - sorry - FOR THIS!"

With a swift twist of his legs, Dean kicked them outwards, kneeing August in the stomach and sending him flying. Right into the shelves of the puppets.

There was a spectacular crash and the puppets rained down on him, shattering upon impact. Despite what he has seen in his lifetime, Dean inwardly cringed at the sight, watching limbs, hair and plastic splattering everywhere, shooting into the dark corners, rolling listlessly on the floor until they finally stop, silent.

August let out a horrible wail, a cross between a sniveling sob and a melodramatic shriek. " My dolls! My dolls! No! It can't be!" He hastily crawled towards the broken scraps, gathering each piece, cradling them to his chest, pressing his face to them, half-weeping, half-shouting. " Evangelina, are you all right?! Not you too, Riley! Clarissa, it's going to be fine! Yvonne, hold on! Don't cry, Markham! It's not that bad, Victor! Please ... please don't leave me ... I'll fix you all up soon ... just hold - hold on until then, all right? Right? _Right_?!"

As much as he despised the guy and his puppets, Dean felt a twinge of pity for him.

" YOU!"

Suddenly, August whipped his head towards him, the puppets' remains still rocking in his chest. His popping eyes, if possible, were more madder than before. " I WILL KILL YOU!!!" he screamed, spit flying, his face twisting into some unrecognizable thing. No longer was the calm, nonchalant killer there. August De Luca had become a monster, a primitive, feral creature that only sought to revenge its fallen friends, as dead as they were before this incident.

His treasured dolls fell to the floor as he lunged at Dean, screaming obscenity. Tugging uselessly at the ropes that hampered his chance to fight back, Dean gritted his teeth, trying to give as much space between him and the crazy ventriloquist.

What neither of them didn't see, was a wooden chair smashing into the side of August's head.

Splinters of wood flew. August crumpled to the floor, as still as his dolls. Dean remained on the ground, dumbstruck. And Sam stood, looking a little unsteady and shaky, holding the remaining legs of the chair.

" You - all right?" Sam asked, his wobbly legs barely supporting his tall frame. From the look on his face, he was terribly confused as to why he was wearing a suit and in this place. " What's going on? Where are we here? Who was that guy? What - ?"

" You think you got problems?" Dean said sarcastically from the floor.

As Sam hurried to untie his brother's ropes, still demanding to know what had happened, Dean was left watching the broken dolls scattered on the floor, surrounding August. Some of them appeared to be looking at him, both remorsefully and wrathfully. But that was all they could do.

He jerked his head towards them, almost like a declaration.

_Sorry, but I'm not letting you turn us into one of you. We like being alive, thanks. _


End file.
